


Twinkies and Coca Cola

by silver0wings



Series: Peter "bad ideas and bubblegum" Maximoff [1]
Category: X-Men (Movieverse)
Genre: Arrest, Peter is a Little Shit, Stealing, pre-DOFP, young!peter maximoff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-05
Updated: 2017-04-06
Packaged: 2018-10-15 04:14:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10549904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silver0wings/pseuds/silver0wings
Summary: Peter runs away from home. Sort of.





	1. Chapter 1

“Mom, I’m running away!”

His words are bright and lively, not anything near a distraught teen actually intent on running away. He’s still pulling on a shirt and fixing his hair as much anyone could fix the gray fluffy mess, meaning this wasn't planned. Peter never plans much of anything, bouncing from one idea to the next, and Ms. Maximoff wasn’t about to try and change that.

As much trouble as all of them are, she loves all her children and would do about anything for them - lord knows she’s bailed Peter out far too many times already, and Wanda wasn’t all too far behind in terms of trouble. If she tried to keep Peter contained it did more damage than good. With that speed of his, the boy went a mile a minute in body and mind. Keeping that all cooped up lead to frustration, fights, and more often than not, something broken. That’s why when he waved his hand in front of her, trying to get attention, trying to double check that she knows he's going out, she just gave a sigh of, “be back home for dinner.”

All big grin and bad ideas, Peter is gone in a second. He actually expected a little more resistance, having planned an excuse he was proud to say might just have worked and everything. If his mom had asked, he would have said it was to test how fast he could run, which of course was a stupid lie. He knew how fast he could run. Fast enough he’d been pulled from PE classes for fear of someone finding out. Fast enough to get to school in a few seconds and still manage to be late almost every day. Fast enough to not get in trouble when he- scratch that, he got in trouble anyways, but that’s just because Wanda ratted. He’s been experimenting with his speed since he got faster than other kids and his mom sat him down and explained that what she could about mutants, and yes, it’s a wonderful gift but please for the love of god stop doing it all the time to cause trouble. Calling this a test was nothing but a lie to get past his mom, and one he told to himself because admitting he was bored stiff wasn’t fun.

Running aimlessly in one direction wasn’t exactly fun either, though. He stops a number of times; in and out of a gas station with a snack in under a second and no one the wiser, at some swings that he left broken in four seconds, a water fountains that was surely busted when he got there and not something he did on his own in seven seconds, and to pet a stray dog. He wasn’t sure how long that last one lasted, but by the time the dog runs off it isn't sunny out anymore, instead bordering on evening, with clouds turning that pink and gold color and the day drawing to a close.

His smile was still sunny as before the dark started to settle. A sort of childish innocence that didn’t falter despite having not been home in quite some time. He’s thinking about heading back home-

“Shit,” the word is spoken out loud, but still to himself, as he looks around the parking lot he’s ended up in. Realization hits, and maybe, just maybe, he should’ve brought a map.

Peter’s… Honestly not really sure where he is. Nothing here looks even vaguely familiar. Okay, not true. He’s in a Walmart parking lot. All Walmart parking lots look more or less the same. But this doesn’t look like one he’s been to before. Maybe if he went inside someone would have directions? Yeah. That sounds like a plan. 

As he steps inside a store, he slows down enough that he wouldn’t be arrested for breaking a speed limit. Why would they enforce a speed limit on someone indoors, not driving a car? He wasn’t sure. But he isn't breaking traffic laws regardless. His past mission of ‘get directions’ is quickly forgotten as he walks the aisles, snatching up a box of snacks and a soda - twinkies and coca cola, what a mix - and casually munches away on a search for… He’s not sure anymore. Probably something else to eat. By this point, he’s missed lunch, dinner AND most snacks in between the two. Running burned a lot of calories, missing one meal was bad enough, but two? Peter's surprised he hasn't starved by now. 

His less than legal food break is cut short when a voice startles him, and his speedy brain goes blank, not processing what the words are the first time. Fast as he is, he's always been one to freeze up when someone yells. Why run when you can stand like a deer in the headlights, clutching his second box of snack cakes and third soda? Just hold still and let the dude get a good look at his face, that’ll help with staying out of trouble.

The voice was stern, but with the I’m-done-with-everything tone that most people in the customer service industry carried, and attached to some store worker who didn’t look like they wanted to deal with this of all things today. “Sir, you have to pay for those,” the words repeat a second time, processing much better than the first. 

He could still run. Wait no, this dude (who’s a dick. Why can’t they just let a kid eat junk food in peace?) knows what he looks like, if he runs off he’ll end up with one of those black and white sketches in the news and he so does not need written proof that he was yet again, in trouble. Wanda loved to hold anything she could over his head, but then again, he did the same to her. That's just what siblings do. So with fleeing out of the question, the thing that next comes to his mind is open defiance.

“No I don’t.”

Okay, that. Admittedly wasn’t the most impressive comeback. But he didn’t have a wallet and he wasn’t about to fork over any of his pocket possessions for food - he needed his walkman, dammit. Chances were whatever he had crammed in there in his rush to get out the door wasn’t an acceptable form of currency, anyways. Since he was already setting himself up for disaster, he goes ahead and chugs the rest of his soda. That sunny smile of his changes to something that was all too smug and stupidly proud of his little misdoing, a look Peter would later learn stuck around for years. 

“Security, need some help on aisle twelve.” Peter decides that now is his moment, and quickly stuffs as much food as possible into his face. If he was already in trouble, might as well really be in trouble and have a full stomach. Who knows when his next meal would come, it’s not he’s entirely brushed up on what happens to people when they actually got caught stealing. 

And just like that, in a matter of minutes, for the first and far from the last time in his life, Peter Maximoff was arrested for theft.


	2. The Aftermath of Stealing

Maybe his real mutation wasn’t his speed. Maybe it was finding trouble.

Peter was certainly good at it, even when he wasn’t trying to. All he wanted to do was go on a dumb adventure and not sit around in the basement all day, wearing out the buttons of his games or zipping back and forth around his ping-pong table. It isn’t his fault he got hungry and didn’t bring money! Okay, maybe it is, but pushing the blame onto someone else was quickly becoming his new favorite thing.

“Could you loosen these things a little? My hands are gonna turn blue and fall off. You didn’t even need to put on these, I’m cooperating.” He tugs and fidgets with the shiny pair of handcuffs, walking alongside the police officer, who to the best of his knowledge, was taking him to jail for stealing junk food. Internally, he’s a shaking mess, trying to find a way out of this or some explanation, some get out of jail free card he can pull.

No such thing seems to exist. Maybe if he just had been good in the first place, this wouldn’t have happened. But better judgment wasn’t really a thing he’s ever had. He certainly doesn’t have it right now, trying to push down any hint of anxiety by running his mouth and smiling at people just trying to ignore him and go about shopping.

“C’mooon I’ll go where you want just loosen them.”

“Really, nothing left the store it wasn’t really stolen.”

“I’m gonna get a phone call right? I wanna call my mom. She’s gonna flip.”

“Hey wait wait can we go back I saw something I want.”

Despite all his babble, he’s walking along without any fuss, going right into the back of the police car. Instead of listening to whatever right to remain silent nonsense, he’s looking for a seat belt, which seemed to be lacking from the prisoner cage section of the car. Well, guess he can’t be in trouble for not wearing one if there wasn’t one there.

“I don’t have to use that, right? Can I keep talking? Okay cool, I’ll keep talking.” 

“Can I sit up front?”

“Hey wait can we stop I need to pee.”

“Are we there yet?”

“Are we there yet?”

“Are we-” “Quit it”

There are a few brief seconds of quiet, Peter wondering if it would be for the best to just try and contain his chatter and wait for his phone call - that’s a real thing, right? They really do give people phone calls, right? He really needs to call his mom. She’s probably worried sick. Or relieved that he isn’t at home causing trouble.

It only lasts a few seconds, though, because he starts playing with the handcuffs.

“I bet I could get these off.”

He’s not seriously trying to, he’s just. Bored. Brain aching for something to do, for some new challenge. Muscles twitch, speed a constant, and not something he could turn on and off at will. Stillness causes an ache that can only be soothed by movement. He’s desperate for something to do. Even before his mutation manifested, he was an active kid, playing and fiddling and making a mess of anything in his reach, giving his poor mom a run for her money.

“Hey, can we stop there that’s my favorite fast food place.”

“I’m still super hungry.”

“Do you serve dinner in jail?”

The chatter has no end. It only picks up when he’s anxious, and seeing as how he was in the back of a police car in a city he didn’t even know the name of, anxious if a bit of an understatement.

When the car finally stops and he’s escorted into the building, he follows along much the same way as he did before. He was a kid constantly in trouble, but he really didn't mean to be bad or make things difficult for others. It just happened. All the time.

“I get my phone call now, right?”

“Or can I at least get dinner?”

He stops briefly when he’s put in a cell, concentrating at pacing at a speed that wasn’t too fast along the barred wall. The questions came and went pretty fast (who he was, if he actually understood he’d just been arrested and was in trouble, so on and so forth), and finally, finally, he got his phone call.

“Hi mom,” his smile’s back. Not the smug one, the sunny childlike one. The one that made it easy to believe he really is just some oversized kid.

The worry in Ms. Maximoff’s voice is clear over the phone, and Peter can’t decide if he’s glad he was missed or feels sick at worrying his mom. “Peter? Where have you been? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, I’m fine! Donno where I am, there’s a police officer here.”

“Can you ask the officer for help?”

“I don’t think he likes me all too much. Wouldn’t even loosen the handcuffs.”

The next few minutes, he listens. Just listens to what his mom says, and then pushes the phone against his chest, clears his throat, and speaks to the officer. “My mom says you need to talk to her because I’m a minor.”

There’s a look of surprise, and a minute of Peter going back into the cell as his mom and the officer talk back and forth, the situation explained a lot better and-

“Wait. He’s really only 13?”

“And a half!” Not the time for pointing that out, but hey. He felt it was important to get things right.

To the officer’s credit, Peter didn’t look 13 (and a half). His mutation came with one heck of a growth spurt, along with the squishy young teenager baby face vanishing, and graying hair. He could’ve passed off as an adult easily, if not for the fact that he was still very much a child at heart. He still does little kid things, adding and a half, and failing to realize after all this time on his adventure, his shirt is on inside out and has been that way since he put it on.

He waits impatiently, and the phone call ends. The officer comes back over to his cell, still looking surprised and a little frustrated with the situation. “Your mom’s coming to get you. Just sit tight, sounded like this was going to be a long drive for her. How’d you get here anyways?”

“I just went running.” If there’s a thing that would one day get him in trouble, it’s how honest he was when it came to his powers. He didn’t lie or cover up. There was an effort made to keep from using his speed in front of people, sure, but when asked directly, he’ll give a shrug and say he’s fast. All he gets this time is a sigh and the officer moving back off, out of his line of sight.

“Wait wait you’re not leaving right? You can’t leave me alone in here.”

“Can I have the stuff that was in my pockets back? It’s not dangerous. Just a music player. C’mon I’m bored.”

“I still need to pee.”

That last one gets him an answer. “There’s a toilet in there.”

“What? It doesn't have a door. I need a door to pee man.”

“Why’d you become an officer? Do you have some cool backstory?”

“I bet I can fit through these bars. Wanna see me try?”

“Uh.”

“I think I’m stuck.”

Yeah, okay, maybe this was a horribly stupid idea. He’s really stuck, impressively so. And the officer is calling the fire department. Great, now he's had two emergency services called on him in one night. All he needs now is an ambulance to complete the holy trinity.

Once unstuck, Peter isn't put back in the cell, instead given a chair to sit in and told to not get up, not move, and quiet down. It's safe to say he doesn't really listen to any of that.

“Since I’m not in the cell anymore can I have my stuff back?”

“Hey can I have that other chair?”

“Please? That one has wheels. Wheely chairs are way more fun.” 

A minute more, and he’s scooting the chair along the floor, inching himself closer to the clearly much cooler, much easier to misbehave with, wheely chair. 

For the officer, who’s just been trying to do his job and really did not want to be dealing with a hyperactive oversized child, it feels like an eternity before Ms. Maximoff finally arrives. It’s well into the night and Peter’s babble never once faltered, not a hint of tiredness on him despite the late hour.

“Mom!”

So much for keeping his speed hidden. He zips right to her when she walks in the door, arms flung around in a hug and smile spreading ear to ear. Yeah, he was more than a little relieved to have her here.

“What do I have to sign or pay for?” Oh shit, she sounds tired. Really, really tired. Peter’s mood drops a little, thinking about all that she’s probably gone through to get here. Probably had to make step-douche watch his siblings, and all the driving, and now whatever the officer wanted.

“Just take him and you can go. Please, take him. The store isn’t pressing charges.” He sounds really tired too. Why was everyone tired? It was only... Oh. Okay, it was late.

He collects his stuff, more than excited to have it all back. It was always weird without things in his pockets, the familiar weight comforting to have back. Ms. Maximoff leads him outside to her car, the parking lot lit only by moon, stars, and streetlights. 

“Mom you have no idea how much happened today.”

“Oh I’m pretty sure I do.” She’s keeping a hand on the sleeve of his shirt, making sure he doesn’t speed off somewhere. He's still jittery and bouncy, hands moving as he starts telling about all the fun he had. He slides into the back seat of the car - shotgun always had a bunch of his mom’s stuff in it, and she got mad when he moved it.

“You don’t! A whole lot happened! I saw this really cool dog. Also I’m pretty sure I saw a strip club? Like the one you used to work at? But I didn’t go in so I’m not sure. Oh, and I had soda.”

“I can tell you had soda. Seatbelt.” Peter never got soda. Caffeinated beverages were generally a bad idea when it came to him. 

“Did you know police cars don’t have seatbelts?”

“Seatbelt, Peter.”

The belt clicks and he spends a second scooting and shuffling, ending up with his head tilted against the window, watching the world pass at a speed so much slower than he could run. This time it feels okay to not be going fast, feels safe and easy to relax with someone who he trusts and loves nearby. His mom really deserves to hear that she’s awesome more often. “Hey, mom? Thanks. For getting me. Jail didn’t have a toilet with a door and I don’t think I can live in a place like that.”

The car starts up and his babble finally trails off to an end. Before they’re even on the road, Peter’s asleep.


End file.
